Of Heroes and Hellions
by p for pseudonymous
Summary: The merging of Wayne Enterprises and Stark Industries forces together two families that go about their heroics in two very different ways but when a new villian strikes it's all they can do to work together. Includes SuperFamily with an addition of a sister to Peter as well as the OC daughter of Bruce Wayne. Expect a multitude of Marvel characters, primarily the Avengers.
1. Chronically Tardy

Disclaimer: It should be noted that this document is a work of fanfiction and therefore any recognizable characters, events, ect. do not belong to me.

Note: Please be aware that I have taken major liberties on the timeline and so specific events as well as the ages of the characters may vary with what is canon in their proper universe

Of Heroes and Hellions

Chapter 1: Chronically Tardy

* * *

><p>A tall brunette walks with her head ducked against the wind chilling the busy streets of New York City. She wraps her sweater closer to her body and curls her fingers beneath the old stretched and worn sleeves. She passes the Baxter Building and counts off ten more blocks until she reaches her destination. She knows she should have hailed a cab if the numbness of her nose is anything to go by, but she'd be hard pressed to find one this time of year as everyone is making last minute Christmas purchases. She knows as much because it is the same reason she has ventured out into the harsh concrete jungle.<p>

Her bags knock against the sides of her legs as she shifts in her walk to reach into her jean pocket for her phone, which has become increasingly difficult to ignore, as it calls out its text alert—a tone reminiscent of a horn signaling battle.

Three missed calls and two voicemails from Daddy Rogers.

A text message from her older brother Peter: _Where are you? Dad says you aren't answering your phone. _And then a second one about an hour later: _He's right… you're not answering your phone._

Next, another message from Father Stark: _Working late tonight. Pops wants you home. Better make a run for it._

She checks the time off the digital clock from her cell—nine o'clock—three hours past the time she said she would be back at the tower. She sighs before typing a message to Peter, better to not interrupt her dad while he's working. _On my way home._ She keeps it short and tucks her phone away before lengthening her stride.

When she reaches Stark tower her lips are chapped and her cheeks are wind-whipped red. She smiles at the dark haired and tired eyed woman at the front desk—Julia, she thinks her name is—before punching at the elevator call button impatiently. She watches the floor numbers as they count down from story forty-six where it rests in the middle of the building shaft to one before stepping in. The metal lift is empty, it is too late for any workers to be coming or going from the office and everyone else must already be tucked away in their private top floor apartments. She swipes her card along the magnetic strip and waits for the computer to verify her identity. The red light above the band lights green before the paneling opens up to reveal call buttons for the top three floors of the tower; she chooses the one for floor ninety-three.

When the elevator doors slide open she expects a frustrated father standing with his arms crossed and tapping his foot as he waits for her, maybe even a mocking older brother come to join the fun. What she finds is an empty living room, the window blinds are opened to reveal a dazzling view of New York at night, and the television is still playing an old space adventure based film. It looks like dad has been trying to play catch up again. _Fascinating._

"Anne?" She hears her brother's voice call from down the hall.

"Yes!" The brunette answers, "it's me."

"Dad was called into work," Peter tells her. She knows what work means. Anne sighs heavily and wonders where he is tonight, whom he'll be fighting, and whom he'll be saving.

She turns to see Peter step out from around the corner of the hallway. He's dressed in a Lycra and spandex body suit, all blue and red and decorated in a pattern of thin webs. There's a depiction of a spider on his chest. Anne smiles. "It's a bit late for trick-or-treating isn't it?"

Peter nods as he slips on his mask and reaches out to catch the handle of the sliding balcony door to pull it open, "but not too late to do some web-slinging." And with that he curls his fingers in, a trail of solified web fluid shoots forward from somewhere around his wrist. Then he's leaping, flying from ninety-three stories high on only the trust of his web-shooters. Peter acquired his powers about a year or two ago when he was bitten by a radioactive spider. He gained the proportional strength and agility of an arachnid along with a few other neat tricks like his spider-sense, as he has dubbed it, as well as the ability to cling to walls.

Anne, unlike her brother, has always had 'the gift.' She does not know whose DNA gave it to her; she has never heard the story of her biological parents. What she can guess is that she was taken in by her fathers on orders from S.H.I.E.L.D. because of her parents abilities and the talent that they would inevitably give to her. What she _knows_ is that she can do incredible things, speak to people who once were but are now only memories. And she can fly, oh how she loves the feel of the city wind rushing around her no matter how smog ridden. Under the alias Soul she trains, she fights, she protects.

When morning dawns the meows of Anne's orange tomcat Rusty wake her from a thick sleep. She remembers when she convinced her dad to get a pet after she spotted the orange furred feline in the shop window—"you're a super soldier; you're not allergic to _anything!"_

Anne stretches her legs as she drags herself from beneath the security of her comforter. She tames her messy bed head in a ponytail before heading to breakfast prior to her training. She finds The Captain standing over the stove and making pancakes, the shapes are a little off from round and the color varies from an appetizing golden to a burnt brown but they are the better choice to the bowl of cereal she originally had in mind. "Morning," she greats him with a kiss on the cheek before claiming the top three pancakes on the plate beside the stove, the best looking of the bunch. Anne joins her other father at the kitchen table where he sits, looking exhausted and nursing a cup of black coffee as he reads over the headlines of today's newspaper. "I wonder who this new super bug is…" Tony comments aloud as his eyes skim over an article headlined SPIDERMAN: FRIEND OR FOE? She knows that the article probably leans toward the ladder.

Steve joins them at the table with the remaining stack of pancakes. "Not even S.H.I.E.L.D. knows," he comments, "but they want to."

Anne feels a sudden burst of anxiety for her brother and preys that he stays locked away in his room lest he leave and be confronted about his own secret identity. While their parents may know about Anne and her alter ego Peter opted to leave them in the dark about his connection to the controversial Spider-man.

"They should just leave the poor kid alone," she speaks up. Tony shoots her a look over his coffee mug, a single raised eyebrow and questioning eyes. She shrugs and stuffs in a piece of pancake too big for her mouth to avoid explanation.

"If he wants to keep his identity a secret that's his choice," Steve agrees and Anne is shocked. She imagined him saying something along the lines of being responsible for any damage he's caused in his explorations. The table is silent after his comment and Anne tenses as she waits for Tony to state his opinion on the matter but such words never come. Instead, The Captain speaks up again, this time looking directly at her. "You were late last night," he says in a disapproving tone.

Anne smiles sheepishly, "traffic was bad?" It comes out sounding more like a question than a statement.

Tony laughs, "of course it was! It's New York at Christmas time. If she wants to go gift shopping for the family let her, Cap," he takes a long drink of his coffee and Anne wonders if maybe he's spiked it with something a little more sinister. "Besides there are worse things she could be doing."

"I'd just like you to inform someone if you're going to be late." Steve sounds resigned.

"I will next time," Anne agrees but this isn't the first time she has said so. These things tend to slip her mind. Either way her father seems appeased.

"I'm off to work now," Tony says, checking the watch that his husband purchased for him a few birthdays ago, its thick and gold and just his style. The action seems strange nonetheless; Tony doesn't often bind to the rules of time. "I have an important meeting with Wayne Enterprises." And then he's gone.

Steve turns to look at his adopted daughter; "I guess that leaves training with me today."

What Anne wears for training and what she sports when crime fighting differ greatly. When she's flying over the city streets she wears something far more colorful. Her gladiator sandals wrap up her calves in ribbons of green, the same enchanting shade as her cape and mask; her hair hangs from the opening at the back of her visor in a thick braid of wind scattered brunette strands. Her dress is of a crystalline white. Needless to say, she's hard to miss. Now, Anne stands in the training room wrapping her knuckles in tape. She's dressed in black cargo pants and a thin tank top; her feet are bare.

In the next room over she can hear the faint sounds of a gun firing within the shooting range; she guesses it is Natasha needlessly perfecting her shot. In another room, the one prepped for high impact combat, she can hear cries of battle and un-human growls; this time she speculates it's Thor and the Hulk. In the upper stories of the room she thinks she catches some movement, _Clint no doubt_. And then there is Dad standing in the center of the sparing mat. He goes easy on her but she's still yet to win against him. She doesn't expect anything more than a good fight, getting in a few hits, and having the ability to hold he own against him until the inevitable take down. He is Captain America after all.

Anne steps into the white painted ring that circles the mat and takes a deep breath. _Concentrate. _The Captain moves first, his fist punching out. Anne ducks, the movement sharp and jarring from her nerves. "Relax," her father tells her. She takes another breath and centers herself. She kicks out only to have her ankle grabbed, forcing her weight out from under her. She tucks her arms and rolls to lessen the impact of the fall before standing back in position. She moves fast and aims a jab at his abdomin. It feels like punching flesh-covered steel. She moves back, swift and light on her feet, to avoid his retaliation. "Nice one," he compliments. He moves in towards her this time and she spins, turning her back on him and swinging her fist around but he catches it. Now she's trapped with her arm held at an uncomfortable angle behind her back, he sweeps her feet out from beneath her and she's falling. Steve catches her shoulder to slow the descent, kneeling beside her as she gasps for breath. Her cheeks redden when she speaks, "You win! …Mercy," she grumbles. He lets up his grip on her and helps her from the ground. Behind them somebody begins a slow clap. Anne turns to face them with a dotty smile.

"Good to know the great Captain America can still take down a teenage girl," Clint Barton, alias Hawkeye, jokes. _So that must have been him in the rafters, _Anne's grin widens at her small victory.

"Not just any teenage girl," the brunette laughs before striking a ridiculous pose, "the masked wonder _Soul!"_

* * *

><p>When her father informed her that they were going away to New York on business she never thought the trip would become permanent.<p>

Bruce Wayne steps into the prim hotel entrance hall situated in downtown Manhattan. Overhead golden chandeliers drip clear diamonds that reflect and scatter their light. His black business shoes make soft noises against the polished marble tile. The main lobby is busy and small crowds move in and out of the elevators. He gives his level number to the elevator conductor with a tight smile—"Fifty, please"—And shuffles his way to the front of the group when they reach his floor. His eyes slide over the room numbers until he catches 5021. He slides his card into the slot and opens the door easily when it grants him admittance. The door within connecting his room to that of 5023 is opened but he knocks on it lightly in fair warning anyways before he enters. They have always been a family that has appreciated privacy.

He opens the door wider and steps out from its shadow. Sitting on the bed with her legs stretched out in front of her and crossed at the ankles, her back propped up by two feather-down pillows is a blonde girl of average height. She folds the corner of the page on the novel she had previously been reading and shuts it, looking up at her father with faint annoyance over the fact that he interrupted her reading if nothing else. "Your meeting went longer than expected," she comments, not bothering to check the time on the digital clock sitting on the bedside table next to her. Perhaps there _was_ something else.

He smiles, laughing a bit, "You know how these business types are," He answers, loosening his tie a fraction. It's a light blue color with an almost dismissible pattern of dark blue pinstripes running down its length, one she purchased for him as a gift on his birthday just last year.

"Yes," she agrees, her lips turning up in a catlike smirk, "I live with one."

"Come on," he motions toward the door with a nod of his head and a shrug of his shoulder, "lets get some lunch."

They're situated in a corner booth at the back of the restaurant on Bruce's insistence. The tables are dark polished wood and mainly empty at this time of day. There are a few men sitting quietly at the bar on the opposite side of the room drinking whatever beer they may have on tap. At one spot in the middle of the dining room a group has pushed together two tables to accommodate their number; they're most likely white-collar businessmen taking an early lunch break. Bruce takes his daughter's beige pea coat and hangs it on a hook next to their booth, doing the same with his own dark jacket. It isn't until their drinks come—two waters—that he speaks.

"The entire purpose of this trip to New York was so that Mister Stark and I could discuss becoming business partners," he gets straight to the point but the girl isn't really listening; she is fiddling with the paper wrapper from her straw. "Ellery," he catches the blonde's attention when he speaks her name; she turns her green eyes on him, "if I were to follow through with this partnership that would mean us moving to New York so that I could help oversee the processes."

It's not a suggestion, not a question. It's a statement.

No, she never thought this trip would become permanent, but it has.


	2. Roger That

Of Heroes and Hellions

Chapter 2: Roger That

* * *

><p>A dark figure jumps from building to building, tucking under itself, landing gracefully, and stepping without sound. Their breath can be seen curling around the chilled black sky, twisting upward to kiss the stars goodnight.<p>

To the populous of Gotham City the figure was once known as Greyhawk, the masked crusader, the femme fetal, the second youngest member of the bat family. She dresses in a durable high-tech suit, flexible gloves and rubber-soled shoes; her utility belt hangs low on her hips. The Greyhawk is a shadow, dressed all in black with a charcoal symbol of a bird stretching its wingspan across her chest. Her green eyes are hidden behind the white shields of her mask that pitches just below and at and the corners of her eyes in sharp angles. Her hair hangs loose in a muted-gold curtain, its color washed out in the thick haze of the city lights that burn well through dawn. And yet, despite the flashing neon lights that yearn to stretch to the darkest corners of the city, the Greyhawk always manages to find shadows to fold herself within.

A gruff voice speaks behind her, one she knows well, "You shouldn't be out here."

"What?" She doesn't turn around to face the darkly clothed man standing behind her when she speaks. He's just another shadow. "Are you going to tell me it's too dangerous?" She's not sure why she asks it because she knows it isn't true. She was bread into this business; before the age of nine she knew how to disable a man with a single hit and how to track a person in the dark by only the sound of their breathing. By the time she was eleven she was employing these practices in the field. She was raised in an environment were she never had the time to develop childish fears.

"No," comes his short reply. People like him rarely concern themselves with the idea of danger because they are stronger than that—strong enough that nothing could ever _truly_ be a danger to them. "But people will get suspicious about Greyhawk and Batman's sudden movement."

"People don't seem to understand how to appreciate a good thing when it's given to them." Her voice seems casual but he can hear the tight undertone beneath it. Of course he can. He's Batman; he's her _father. _Ellery understands peoples' impulse to question everything, she's naturally suspicious herself, but she appreciates it less when the questions are aimed towards her. The less people know about her the better. She has always been cloaked in mystery.

And when the time has passed Ellery does not need to turn around to know he's gone, melted back into the shadows and disappeared.

* * *

><p>Soul doesn't participate in nightly patrols of the grimy city streets. She doesn't beat up thugs or lock away drug dealers. It isn't that she deems their petty crimes below her but rather that her actions as a hero have always been controlled by her parents, people who have continuously been far more concerned by the bigger picture as it goes for the safety of the city and sometimes, even, the world. Her joints have begun to feel stiff at the lack of movement.<p>

But she is confident in her brother who has taken it upon himself to clean up the streets. Anne believes it has something to do with the goon who killed his Uncle Ben. Spider-man knows the Earth shattering impact that the low class criminals can have. One bullet can tear apart a family; a single packet of powder can bring down entire futures. And it isn't as if Spider-man has not made formidable enemies. In the short time he has slung his webs Peter has built up his own repertoire of super villains: the Green Goblin, Electro, Kingpin, Venom, and the list continues on.

Sometimes Anne will stay up late and pull her curtains wide open across her window so that she may see out into the night. Tired eyes scan the skyline in search of a familiar red and blue suit; maybe she'll hear his familiar laughter as he swings through the night on his thin wire cables. But she never sees anything aside from the steady stream of city lights, never hears anything over the faint noise of horns from cars driving ninety-three stories below. Though, this time she thinks perhaps she's caught a glimpse of something, a figure drifting seamlessly within the shadows; however, she's too close to sleep to be able to trust her senses—too far gone.

Anne wakes up the next morning before her alarm, her mind heavy with the knowledge that winter break is over and school has begun again. Sunlight streams through her window. She fell asleep without closing her sheers last night. In the dining room Peter sits slumped over his plate and nibbling half-heartedly on a piece of toast. He has dark shadows under his eyes and a far off expression on his face. She does not ask him what is wrong, she can already assume as much, and she is sure he will appreciate her silence.

Peter runs a hand through his hair, a brunette color only a shade lighter than Anne's—a trait that makes them both look more like Tony than Steve—and gives her a tight-lipped smile. It isn't his usual smile, which makes his eyes crinkle and his dimples more prominent. It's enough to make her lean forward across the table, her long hair falling into her face before she tucks it impatiently behind her ear, and rests a hand on his arm. "What happened last night?" Everyone should be out of the tower save for them; she decidedly throws all caution to the wind.

"Nothing," he shakes his head, "we'd better get moving if we want to make it to class on time." He stands from his seat and stretches his arms above his head, making something in his shoulder pop.

Anne throws her head back and laughs loudly. "Who's ever known you to be on time?"

"I'm turning over a new leaf," Peter shrugs.

And sure enough they make it to school on time. Students milling around the old brick building, huddled in small groups outside despite the cold, their boots scuffling against the frosted grass and dirty melting snow. Anne breathes in the crisp air and waves across the yard to a group of laughing students, skipping off and leaving her brother without a word in his direction. "Anne!" calls a girl with a short blonde haircut, a stylish bob that curls just under her chin. She has wide eyes the same color of the champagne that is always found floating around on trays perched delicately on the hands of suited waiters and waitresses in flutes of clear glass at the formal events her family is often invited, and obligated, to attend. "Leah," Anne greats with a happy smile while pulling the straps of her bag high up on her shoulders. Anne has always had a large circle of friends; she likes to surround herself with people and laughter and _noise_. She pulls her energy from the environment around her.

Anne turns her smile on the rest of the small group around her: Mitchell, who feels his name is far too close to the female spelling of Michelle and insists everyone call him Mitch instead, laughing with Hunter whom has a shy disposition and hides his bright blue eyes behind bulky black-framed glasses. And then there's Kelly, with her long legs and pale skin a stark contrast against her fiery red hair that falls straight as a pin down to her waist, who has ducked her head down to whisper something in the ear of Diana, a tiny girl with a mess of darkly colored waves and a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, a nose that crinkles when she smiles like she is now. She follows the length of their gaze over her shoulder and across the yard to a student, she's new—Anne knows because she has taken it upon herself to know most every face in the school—and she's also someone Anne recognizes instantly.

This girl is of average height with plaits of long blonde hair a shade of color that the fashion magazines describe as honey brown. Anne knows even from this distance that the girl has green eyes like a thick forest canopy, a mix of dark and light hues. She gets her coloring from her mother, she assumes, for she has none of her father's dark hair or fair blue eyes. Everything else comes from him though, the famous Bruce Wayne, his face structure and smirk. Even the simple way they hold themselves is enough to draw the resemblance. Yes, she knows the girl in a casual sense, it's hard not to when Ellery Wayne's photograph is plastered on the front page of gossip magazines almost as often as her own. They're both publicity babies, and now their fathers shake hands and play nice. It would only make sense for them to do the same.

Ellery Wayne had never been good at making friends, had avoided the activity in fact. She was more of a lone wolf—lone _hawk _if one is apt to humor_._ She flies in the solitary skies, more space for her to stretch her wings. She makes it her goal to look as unapproachable as possible and for the most part it works in her favor. So it is surprising when she feels someone at her shoulder and hears them—her, because the voice is distinctly female—call her by name, her _first_ name. People that are unfamiliar with her always call her by her last name with a tone of reverence in their voice but there is none of that here. She can tell the girl is grinning just by the pitch of her voice and it grates on her nerves. Ellery doesn't slow her pace, she doesn't even turn to look at the girl; though, she can pick up a crop of brown hair and a fleece jacket in a happy yellow color out of her peripheral vision. "I'm Anne Rogers," the girl speaks, not the least bit deterred by the blonde's lack of reaction, "Stark-Rogers," she tacks on as an afterthought. Ellery is hardly surprised that the other girl has searched her out but she had thought it would take the other girl more time. She expected to be approached at a formal event for the company, like the gala that is swiftly approaching, or even in the library during lunch about a week from now, but not the morning of her first day at Midtown High. The girl is quick; she'll give her that.

"Ellery Wayne," the blonde speaks in a clipped tone, taking the final step up the concrete flight before entering the school, "but it's evident you already know that by the way you declared it to the entire court yard just moments previous." They make a sharp turn down the corridor until Ellery stops in front of a locker. It has a bit of its green paint chipping in the corner but it is at least a top locker and situated at the end of the row, only just around the corner from Anne's as she tells her so.

"What's your schedule?" Anne asks, hoping to compare. Ellery takes a moment to stack her books neatly away before opening up a calendar book with a green plastic cover on the front, on the inside corner it has her initials written in block capital letters: E.M.W. She pulls out a crisply folded piece of printer paper, holding it between two fingers like a cigarette and just out of Anne's reach. Ellery studies her for a moment. The look she gives her makes Anne want to shift on her feet, but she doesn't. Instead she takes the opportunity to stare back and seize all the details that the poor lighting and crass photography had blended out. Anne expects the other girl's nails to be long and manicured but instead they are cut short, the cuticles kept clean. When she stands her toes turn slightly inward and there's a fine scar running the diagonal length of her left cheek from the corner of her eye across to her jaw line. She wants to ask her about it but the idea of inquiring something so personal too soon makes her hold her tongue, not something she does often. Perhaps she'll ask one day and receive an honest answer.

Ellery tips the letter closer to Anne in a silent gesture. The brunette takes it from her hand and unfolds just as quietly. In the top left-hand corner the name and mailing address have been blacked out with Sharpie; the marker's biting scent is still detectable. And then below it reads:

** CLASS ****TEACHER ****ROOM # **

PERIOD 1: Calculus II Robertson, Michael 204

PERIOD 2: Chemistry AP Haynes, Patricia 436

LUNCH A

PERIOD 3: English IV AP Pierce, Renee S. 311

PERIOD 4: French IV H Bellerose, Pamela 108

They have two out of four classes together as well as lunch. Anne looks up at Ellery and grins, "Lunch, English, and French," she lists off, counting on three fingers. "And I think you have Chemistry with my brother, Peter."

Anne was not wrong. Ellery realizes as much when she takes her seat in room 436, a space off to the side in the front row, and Mrs. Haynes calls roll. Her name is the last on the list unlike in calculus when there was a White, Stephanie on the roster, but in both classes Ellery's last name sends a ripple through the once sleepy students. Every student but Peter Rogers, that is. She supposes Peter already knows how it feels to be talked about not because of _you_ but your parents instead.

They end up as lab partners and Ellery is left wondering what it is with herself and the Stark-Rogers family.


	3. Misdirection

Of Heroes and Hellions

Chapter 3: Misdirection

* * *

><p>Bruce and Ellery Wayne, British butler Alfred Pennyworth included, take a semi-permanent residence within the penthouse suit of the Bailiwick Hotel. It's decorated with dark wood and warm fabrics. It reminds Ellery of home, or at least what home used to be. Now the blonde is seated on one of the five bar stools tucked under the island in the kitchen, her school papers scattered wide across the slate gray colored granite as Alfred works on dinner at the stove and skillfully avoids her documents when he moves around the counter. The youngest Wayne reaches over and dips her finger into the bowl of mashed potatoes and licks it free of any foodstuffs. "They could use more butter," she says to the clean cut looking man standing in front of her.<p>

"Miss Wayne," Alfred responds, sounding slightly exasperated as he slices into a squash "perhaps you would be better suited to complete your work at the desk in your bedroom."

Ellery makes a noncommittal noise and tucks a stray piece of blonde hair behind her ear before ducking her head forward and writing down another few sentences on her English essay—_Are nuclear weapons global peacemakers or killing devices?_ Anne had been less than thrilled to hear the topic. Her father had once been the one to build these weapons. Stark Industries is primarily an energies based company now but that doesn't mean the topic doesn't still sting.

She's roused from her thoughts by the sound of the elevator doors opening on the other side of the suite. The doors are specially designed to work as silently as possible but her years as a bat have trained her to hear what others do not. She knows by the sound and speed of the steps that it's her father home from work; she's not sure who else would be entering the Wayne family apartment anyways but Father always did tell her to "expect the unexpected." The turn of phrase negates itself but it gets the point across just the same: be prepared for anything because anything can happen.

"Ellery," he father offers her a half hug, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and giving her a squeeze, "how was school?"

"Fine, I'm almost finished with my homework for the weekend."

"Good," Bruce smiles, "because we have the gala for the merger tomorrow." The gala. Ellery had gone to many in Gotham for Wayne Enterprises but this will be the first event she participates in within the city limits of New York with people she doesn't know—not even the awkward "_I remember when you were just _this_ tall" _acquaintances. At proceedings such as these she generally finds herself sitting at the bar sipping something virgin and counting the minutes off on the over sized watch of whatever tipsy socialite is seated next to her that night.

Bruce reaches over and dips his finger in the bowl of mashed potatoes and licks it clean of the heavily whipped spuds. "Pretty good, Alfred, but they could use some butter."

* * *

><p>A night later finds the two bats in a situation far from the casual family dinner of the previous evening.<p>

The worker just inside the door of the upscale hotel tucked away on the Upper East Side takes the youngest Wayne's coat. It is warmer inside than it is out in the biting wind that works its way through the streets. Ellery's legs are still chilled; the skirt of her dress, a champagne color a few shades darker than the pale of her skin and a few shades lighter than the blonde of her hair, twirls and moves easily, tickling the cold skin on the backs of her knees.

Next to her, her Father leads her through the dense crowd in the greeting hall with a steady hand against her back. He plays the part of the successful businessman well dressed in a crisp black suit and tie, a clean white shirt, the only color he wears is the silver gleam of cufflinks. It makes Ellery wonder what part she acts in the ruse of life and whether or not she plays it fine enough.

The ballroom has high vaulted ceilings and over sized diamond chandeliers. The walls are painted in a tasteful color that might be labeled Euro Linen on a paint chip tucked away on a home improvement store's self. In the far corner, a sixteen-piece band plays light music and on the opposite side of the room she can spot the open bar between the thick green fronds of one of the potted plants that are set in successive spaces around the room.

They're swept away in a crowd of women, their faces heavy with makeup and their eyes bright with admiration, and men, their minds weighty with the next get rich quick scheme. Bruce works his way across the hall with the skill of a man long practiced in social provisions. Even after all this time the large crowd makes Ellery's skin feel too warm and her throat too tight. It's only right that Bruce would lead her to the center of it all to a small group consistent of three men.

Steve Rogers stands taller than most of the crowd; though, he only has a few inches on the eldest Wayne. The super soldier's hair is combed in a way that speaks of the era he comes from. One person over is Peter, smiling a smile that shows off his dimples and looking slightly out of place in his dark suit. Beside him Tony Stark stands, his red tie reminiscent of the suit that he fights crime in, reaching out to shake his associates hand before turning to take in the petite blonde in the champagne colored dress. "You must be the daughter," they shake hands. He has a firm grip but not tight enough to pinch her fingers together, just enough to make an impression.

"Yes," she introduces herself, "Ellery Wayne."

"The kids mentioned you," he nods in remembrance, "Peter said you two have Chemistry together," he says it in a way that makes Ellery shift in her satin flats, as if the line has a double meaning. "Why don't you two grab a dance?" he smiles and motions to the swaying couples around the floor.

"I've never been one for dancing," she declines smoothly.

Steve looks reminiscent when he says, "Maybe you just haven't found the right partner yet." He clears his throat and straightens his tie; it's a cool shade of blue that brings out the bright color of his eyes.

And that's how they find themselves on the dance floor. Parents always do have the uncanny ability to put together impossibly uncomfortable situations. Peter smoothes his hands over the tight fabric of the top half of her dress, his fingers splayed wide and tracing the pattern of small gems that also adorn the sheer long sleeves that run the length of her arms. Peter can dance. He moves with a simple grace that his boyish looks contradict. And Ellery, with her intensive training, can at least manage not to step on his feet. In the middle of the second song she leans forward on her tiptoes, the heels of her feet lifting out of her shoes, so that she may lean forward to speak close to his ear. "What do you say we shimmy over to the bar?"

Peter laughs that happy laugh of his and nods in agreement. When they reach the bar the stools are mostly left unoccupied save for a single one at the end of the row that a woman has draped herself over. Her dress has a gaping neckline and her red lipstick is smudged in the corners, her mascara wet looking and clumped as if she had recently been crying. She orders a quick secession of Appletinis and blows her nose noisily on one of the small drink napkins that comes with them.

"Pomegranate Martini—virgin." Ellery orders her own drink after she perches herself atop one of the stiff wooden stools, the one furthest from the crier, on the opposite end of the bar and at the corner of the room. Peter orders his own drink and takes the seat next to her. She twists a rogue strand of hair that has wondered free from the messy twist of her chignon and takes a sip of her drink to keep herself from grinning when she sees what Peter has in his glass. The limejuice stings as it slides down her throat, a stark contrast to the sweet after taste that the sugar provides. Peter himself has a coke. The carbonate fizzles around the rim of the scotch glass that the bar tender poured it in. He has been to the same amount of these events as Ellery has—a number too high to count off on all his fingers—but he still orders his drinks like it is his first time.

"So, that chemistry homework…" Peter stretches his arms across the dark wooden counter and clasps his hands together, giving her a sideways look through his eyelashes. His ruffled hair, silly grin, and happy yellow colored tie give him the impression of something more innocent.

"Peter, I really don't want to talk about our school work," Ellery answers, picking up the martini glass by the thin breakable stem and swirling the crimson colored liquid inside. She watches its globular movements with sharp green eyes, studying the way the dim bar lights refract in branches off the drink and turn sections of it a warm pink.

"In that case," Peter says, observing the glass as well before turning his wide puppy-dog eyes on her, "Anne and I play this game—"

They end up watching the movements of mouths across the room, assigning impractical words to the high-class socialites of New York and, in some cases, cities farther. Anne finds them like this, leaning close and peering across the room, Peter laughing and Ellery wearing a small smirk. The crier has left by the time she gets here.

Anne wears a dark blue dress with off the shoulder straps that outline the curve of her slim neck down to her shoulders; the gauzy material hugs her waist before folding over loosely around her legs, the tips of her open-toed shoes just poking out from beneath the hem. From a closer distance Ellery can see the small snowflakes painted on her big toes. "Hey, guys!" Anne lifts a single hand to wave at them before walking over and leaning against the dark lacquered counter next to Peter. She sweeps her long curls away from her face and pulls them to a single side of her shoulder. Anne opens her mouth to say something more but the words that are heard are not her own. These words echo against the high vaulted ceilings of the ballroom; the music stops and the startled couples cease their dancing.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" A woman calls the attention of the entire hall. Ellery stands up from her seat, any semblance of humor in her features gone, and eyes the older woman. It is the crier. She has lengthy red hair the color of blood, the same color as the lipstick staining her lips—it is no longer smudged at the corners as it had earlier been. Her long-green backless dress has a slit on one side the length of her leg to reveal copious amounts of pale skin. She looks like a rose, beautiful but not without its thorns.

"You business types really don't know how to party. Here, let me show you." She raises her arms high above her head and the chandeliers rattle, their bulbs shattering and pitching the room into a semi-dark gloom. Ellery catches her father's eyes across the room in a silent question; he moves his head in a short movement to the right—_No_. If they take action now GreyHawk and Batman could be connected back to Bruce and Ellery Wayne. So she stays still and plays the best version of the damsel in distress she can as both Peter and Anne lose themselves in the crowd.

The chandeliers begin falling one by one, dropping and shattering in a rain of diamonds. The crowd scatters, screaming and running for the doors, but figures spring up from the tiled flooring. They are black as shadows but move swifter than that and prove themselves to be more solid as they effectively block the exits.

Captain America is the first to jump into action. Ellery finds herself wondering if he was wearing his uniform under his suit Clark Kent style. She almost grins at the thought of the righteous hero her father often fights beside. He's a man she knows well.

And then there's Iron Man, the arc reactor of his suit moving high above the crowd like a glowing beacon. Next to him is the hero in training Soul; her suit is shining almost as bright as the lights in Iron Man's metallic gear. Spiderman swings from vault to vault of the shadowy ceiling. GreyHawk and Batman are nowhere to be found.

"_Now_ it's a party!" The red haired woman shrieks. Her laugh is high pitched and haunting. She moves around the room even swifter than the shadows she produced, disappearing and reappearing on instant.

Spiderman's webs catch at her wrist and jerk her upward. She opens her arms wide and laughs harder than before. It's all a game. She's just going for a ride. The webs snap and meters before she hits the floor she vanishes only to reappear behind Captain America.

The Captain turns and swigs out at her with his shield, putting his weight down full force but she's gone before he makes impact and the harsh sound of metal on stone rings through the room.

She rematerializes on the back of Iron Man, clinging to him like he's giving her a piggyback ride midair. He flies jarringly in attempt to shake her off but her sharp nails cling into the metal crevasses of his suit.

Soul produces ropes to tangle themselves around the villain's body like boa constrictors but the crier only uses her party trick once again. Tied up one moment and free the next.

The fighting continues and Ellery's muscles tighten. She itches for her suit. She's sitting on the sidelines of a high-stakes game, just hoping that Coach will give her a spot in the lineup. Her ears buzz with adrenaline, a drug she cannot put to use, and block out the sounds of the screaming crowd. She bites at the corner of her lower lip as she views the ongoing event. She tastes blood.

The remaining crowd watches the heroes wide-eyed and helpless. Soul, and the way she wields her infallible whips against the growing weed. Spiderman, and his wit that slices through the silky skin of the criminal. Captain America, and the way he moves in a haze of red and blue. Iron Man, and the scorching light of his reactors.

And they watch the villain too. Her quick movements and the way she dances around the heroes; the swirl of her revealing dress; the upturned corners of her scarlet painted lips; the way the air shimmers before she fades away and rematerializes, and hangs in the air after that too—a radiant mist that clings to her hair and skin like morning dew. It does not seem as though she will make a mistake.

But she does. The femme fetal rematerializes right in front of the Captain, her back turned to him. He throws the shield, spinning violently towards the thorny flower. She hears the way the vibranium slices the wind and turns to look at it wide eyed before she ducks. The shield imbeds itself into the drywall of the back partition. She dusts herself of before standing straight again. "The name's Miss Direction! And don't you forget it. Stay posted for the date of my next act." She takes a deep bow before the murk folds in on her and she's gone, her shadow creatures evaporating with her.

The only question left is: who is going to clean up this mess?


	4. Step Into the Night

Of Heroes and Hellions

Chapter 4: Step Into the Night

* * *

><p>The air feels tense. Any breathable particles have been vaporized, cloaked, gagged and withered away in the darkness that is Miss Direction. A certain heaviness has descended upon the conurbation as they wait. But New York has always been a city of movement, not stillness, and the inhabitants are becoming restless.<p>

Anne watches the dark sky through the tinted windows of the car. It is the calm before the storm. The clouds are gray and heavy, aching for release. And the earth wants this too even if it means to be drowned in the storm's torrent. She sits in the back, her eyes panning over the skyline thoughtfully as her driver—Happy Hogan, a family friend—moves the vehicle skillfully through the clogged and dirty streets. The seat partition is down but Happy does not attempt to engage the young girl in conversation. He has long since learned her moods. He can see in the slight furrow of her brow and the strait line of her lips, lips that are usually upturned and split wide, and the far off look in her eyes that she is in a thoughtful state. It is a state he would do best not to interrupt. If he did she would become flustered, her hair would scatter as she shook her head, cheeks rushing pink. No, he will not interrupt her.

The wind picks up a stray flier skirting aimlessly across the sidewalk, skillfully avoiding pedestrian feet as if it has eyes of its own to see with. The paper tumbles midair wavering a bit—it's hesitating, quivering—before it connects with the darkened glass of the 2014 black Lincoln Town car. Anne rocks in her seat a bit, startled, her cheeks flushing the same rouge Happy had imagined would happen if he had interrupted her just moments previous. The paper flails in the wind, smacking against the glass with ugly flapping noises. Anne rakes her hair back with her fingers and she thinks she catches a bolded heading in large yellow block letters, a swirl of red hair, a woman dressed in a mock carnie costume, before the wind picks up the page and sweeps it away again.

Anne slumps in her seat, her mind sliding over images of other certain red heads. The rain has begun to fall now, slowly and just one drop at a time, she counts five that hit her window and watches as they slide down the pane. The second farthest to the left reaches the bottom first only to slide through the crack between the door panel and the window, lost to the outside world forever. The car comes to a slow stop, rocking forward a bit in the end as it comes to a complete halt in front of the towering structure Anne calls home. Happy trots around the side of the Town car to pull open her door. The brunette ducks her head and clambers out of the vehicle, taking a moment to stretch her long legs and feel the peaceful fall of water against her skin. One, two, three drops and then they come in quicker succession, ten, thirteen, twenty, more violently and harder and soon there are too many to count. Her hair is soaked by the time she makes it to the building. Her jacket drips a trail of tears along her path and the hems of her waterlogged jeans drag along the lobby floor.

Once again, a semi-empty apartment greets her. Peter is the only inhabitant and he stands over the island in the kitchen nibbling on the edges of heavily browned toast slathered in peanut butter. He nods casually in her direction but they don't bother with conversation. They both know that they have things to do, the same goal but different processes. Peter will hunt out the red headed villainess within the dark recesses of the city and Anne will meet with the rest of the registered heroes and plan a thorough attack. She wishes it to be different. Every night Anne swivels in her chair, eliciting high-pitched squeaking noises from the joints of her seat, and wishes to take action. Every night her father—The Captain—shoots her half-understanding half-irritated glances across the meeting table. Every night Father-number-two sips on glass after glass of coffee, his eyes drooping in fatigue but his grin charming as ever. Every night the Black Widow sits ramrod straight in her patent leather cat suit and speaks in commanding tones. Every night Hawkeye cracks halfhearted jokes and busies his hands by completing trick shots on a miniature scale with a paper clip, a few wads of paper, and a single rubber band. Every night Bruce Banner rubs his tired eyes and inserts factual and dually helpful comments. Every night Thor speaks in a voice a single level too loud for the late hour.

* * *

><p>Peter's every night is very different. <em>This <em>every night is very different. Because this is the very night that he meets _the_ Night.

Night's hair is a contradiction; it is a cool offset color that reflects the same light that the rest of her body absorbs. Her costume is sewn out of the same shadows she lives within. It makes him feel conspicuous like a flashing neon sign pointing out his location, all red and blue and white wired webs. He can't see her eyes—they are hidden behind the whites of her angled domino mask—but he can tell that they are just as dark as the rest of her.

"I had heard rumors that you and the big bad bat had moved into town." He's hanging upside down, facing her back. He had thought he was sneaking up on her but when his voice reflects off the concrete buildings to meet her ears she does not seem surprised.

"And you were curious," she says; it isn't a question, "so you decided to find out for yourself." She doesn't seem angry. Her tone is casual; the inflections are low and monotone. If one cared enough to strain their ears they might find a slightly mocking tone behind it all. She doesn't ask him what his impression is, whether or not he is impressed with her like he had expected her to. He's not sure what he would say if she did anyways. Dark maybe. Yes, she's definitely very dark. But is he impressed? He isn't sure. He has seen a lot but he hasn't seen enough of her yet.

"Why?" he asks.

"I could ask you the same thing," she has started moving again, long strides that make her muscles ripple beneath her tight costume, "but the difference between you and me is I already know." And then she's picking up speed and leaping from the building top; in a single cat-like movement she twists in the air. If her eyes hadn't been shielded he might have seen her wink. He follows after her; the jump is short enough that he can make it without his webs. He lands just as she's midair again, halfway between his building and the next, the space is wider and he feels a certain tightness in his throat when he thinks of the harrowing fall.

It has gotten to the point where he doesn't need to think to use his web shooters; his adaptive unconscious works the processes out for him. They are a part of him now. He doesn't need to think now. He doesn't need to…

Aim. Shoot. _Thwap. _The web catches her between the shoulder blades and tugs her up short. Her spine arches and her neck tightens in the kick back, the pit of her stomach dropping as she feels the familiar sensation of falling only to be cut short again. She dangles there, on the side of the high-rise building, the chill of the stone unable to penetrate her suit. Peter pears over the edge at her; her chin is tilted upward to give him a look that could burn and her arms are crossed over her chest in a way that shows she is far too relaxed in her potentially precarious position. "I can't hang around all night, Spidey." He wonders if she realizes the pun she just made or if it was inadvertent. He suspects the ladder.

"You could die," he means to speak of right-now that follows her risky leap but he can't help but think that the statement carries. Nobody tells you when you're a kid, but heroes die too.

"So could you if you continue to be a problem." Spiderman laughs at this but it ends in a nervous chuckle because all he knows her by is her reputation and its about as dark as the costume she dresses in. He sees her hands move to a sheath on her belt and then the tell tale glint of a silver blade. He scrambles backward onto the roof, scattering pebbles and dirt to avoid her aim but the blade never comes. He counts out the seconds until he reaches a wobbly five minutes before peering over the edge again but she's gone. All that is left for him to see is the splayed ends of his sliced web. His eyes scan the sidewalk below but it is free of all ashy blonde hair, dark super suits, and scarlet blood.

Yes, he decides. He is impressed now.

* * *

><p>Anne's every night is very much the same, she thinks. The room's lights are dimmed low and a large projection hangs midair playing and replaying the video of a night that happened just a week previous. The teenaged brunette shuffles through the thin stack of papers that each Avenger has in their own manila folder. It isn't a lot, a black and white photograph that was taken from a zoom in of the video, a brief description:<p>

Gender: Female

Hair color: Red

Eye color: Brown

Height: 5"7 inches (?)

Weight: 130 pounds (?)

It goes on to explain that her powers, while not extensively studied, seem to be manipulation of reality. In a sense, she's a real life magician. This statement alone is enough to send Tony Stark into a fit; he does not believe in magic, not even when he is sitting next to a Norse god. Her background history is virtually nonexistent and they don't even have a true name to put to the face.

Theories get tossed around, ideas rejected. It is hard to fight an enemy you don't know, and even harder to plan for them.

_"Stay posted for the date of my next act," _she had said.

_I am coming,_ is what she had meant.


	5. People of Opposition

Of Heroes and Hellions

Chapter 5: People of Opposition

* * *

><p>It's not until the next week that they find out—Monday, to be exact.<p>

Classes run slow as they always seem to at the beginning of the week; though, the sky holds none of these first day grays. It's clear and blue and the sun casts away the grimy sludge left behind by the street cleaners. And Anne smiles. She smiles despite her late nights spent at a round table in a secret room leveled stories over the city streets. She smiles despite whispered words from her brother about what the Spiderman has seen.

_"The calm before the storm…" _he says _"Something big is coming…"_

She smiles despite it all because that's what she does.

When Anne's lunch period rolls around she spends it at a stone table by one of the thickly-trunked oak trees that stretch their crass roots deep beneath the weeded grass of Middleton's courtyard. They grip the soil tight, so tight indeed that one could personify that they feel it too, this impending shift.

Leah sits to Anne's left, head tossed back and eyes closed in content. Sunbeams breach the naked tree branches and tan the small blonde's face, bringing a pink tint to her cheeks. A chill still resides within the shade but today is unusually warm for the time of year, most all of the snow has washed away from the streets, blackened and dirty with soot. Snowdrifts seep to form streams that run rivulets down to the darker places of the city sewers.

Sitting upon the tabletop Mitch has his arm casually tossed around Hunter's shoulders, the former speaking loudly as the ladder laughs in a voice far more boisterous than usual; his glasses slip down the bridge of his nose and he brings a hand up to push them back into place. It's an action Anne has seen her brother Peter perform many times before. But that is all in the past now.

Diana props her foot up on the seat with her and hums a song Anne doesn't recognize; the toe of her shoe makes clicking noises against the stone bench as she taps her foot. Almost all of them are there… all but…

Kelley runs up to their table, her long legs bringing her in fast, her straight hair swings with her movements behind her back and her nose flares due to her wide grin. In one hand she clutches at a slightly crumpled piece of paper. She lets out an excited squeak—one that's meant to be heard—that makes the boys turn their heads; Diana ceases her humming and Leah's eyes snap open. Anne's smile widens, "What's that you've got there?" she asks.

"Have you guys heard of Miss Direction?" Kelley says the villain's name with a mix of reverence and fear.

Diana scoffs, "of course we have it's been all over the papers."

Mitch scans the group casually, "who still reads the papers?"

"Well it's been in the news too hasn't it, on the TV?" Leah asks; though, she means it as a statement. She knows it has been in the news; Miss Direction is the reason her mom hasn't let her leave the house on her own since the merging of Wayne Enterprises and Stark Industries.

Anne's stomach flutters and her smile falters when Kelley smoothes out the flyer and hands it to her. The heading is in large yellow letters. Below that is a woman in a white suit with green pinstripes, carnie style, she wears a tall-green top hat and holds a hook-handled cane. Her grin is cat-like and her brown eyes gleam.

"It's almost like Christmas isn't it?" Diana snorts, leaning over Anne's shoulder and noting the woman's green attire against deep red hair. Her lips are painted in the same hue as they had been at the gala. Anne supposes that it comes with her brand, green and red. _Like Christmas_; though, it feels like anything but.

* * *

><p>The bottoms of Ellery's boots are still slick with liquid snow. She settles into a booth bench that faces the expanse of the diner window; she knows Peter is entering the café before the bell above the door plays chorus to his presence. His eyes scan the seats and though she knows that it is herself whom he is looking for she does not make a motion to wave him over. Instead, she lets him search.<p>

When their gazes catch across the length of the tiled floor and over the heads of the few patrons placed sporadically about the eatery Ellery grants him a dim smile, the tight lipped one that she had learned from her father. When Peter smiles you can see his teeth and the dimples in each of his cheeks. His grin is an invitation she wishes to accept. They share such looks over long sips of hot chocolate.

"How do you like New York?"

The question is innocent but the words bring forth traitorous thoughts. It makes Ellery think more of Gotham and less of the place she was questioned about.

"The people are…"

She thinks of Dick. _It's hot. Too hot for the costumes they wear. Winter turned to summer without the caveat of spring. The flowers will not grow now. Even when darkness falls across the sky the sun radiates like a past memory, its heat prickling. And Ellery sweats. __Perhaps it is simply the warmth, or maybe the moisture building beneath the dark Kevlar of her suit comes from something more. Her nerves vibrate against her insides and build against their kinetic energy, such energy she is itching to release._

_It is her first patrol with only Dick. The Batman is nowhere in sight but that does not mean he is not here; she doesn't think about that now, though. _

She was so naive.

_Dick's Robin costume is sewn against all the tears and no dust dulls the bright fabric as she now knows it will in due time. She never understood the appeal of being Robin. She never understood..._

_They work well through the night but—Ellery remembers—she had not grown tired then. She was far too enchanted with her work. This is all at a time before she had grown weary. And she likes being with Dick too, likes the way he laughs. Likes the way he makes _her_ laugh. _

She doesn't laugh much anymore

_And when the blackness washes out to gray they fall against the wall of the cave as such laughter scatters the bats. Bruce is still gone. But that's okay. Right now everything is light and nothing weighs heavy on their minds. But that was before…_

The People are tormented.

She thinks of Jason. _She's covered in blood again. Why is it that she's always covered in blood? _

_Ellery falls to her knees, shoulder knocking against the gray headstone. Her fingers tremble as she reaches out and traces his name _JASON TODD; _bloody smears stain the marker where they touch. Her tears catch in her lashes where she won't let them fall, they are salty things that mix with her reddish gore. _

_She curses the Joker, whose blood mixes with her own. _The white of his makeup is smeared with sweat and when he laughs his disfigured lips split wide. When all is over, he will have many more scars to outnumber the ones he has left on Ellery.

_And she recites an oath bathed in the venom of her hate against her father whom had pulled her away. _Firm hands grip her arms, pulling at the spandex of her top and digging into naked skin were it tears; she doesn't notice until her next blow is halted. She struggles against her physical bonds with the same fierceness that she does against those that enclose her mind.

_She chokes before Dick's name may pass her lips. _She slides uselessly against the broken structure her body is thrown against, pathetic anger sapping her shell of a being of its current strength. She stumbles before she runs and she can't even feel the movement of her legs beneath her body. She thinks maybe she's flying.

Ellery doesn't hear Dick call after her but she hears The Batman's response, a rumble of thunder perceived above the raging storm. It curdles her insides and when she reaches the cast iron gates of the graveyard she kneels down, she closes her eyes, and she vomits.

_When she wakes up the next morning she can feel the hard stone beneath her, bare skin itching where it lay in the grass. The sun hits her eyes in a reflection of red light but when she blinks her eyes it is gone, the morning basking in its dreary glow._

_ It must be her blood. She's always covered in blood._

The people are alive.

She thinks of Tim. _He always wanted to be Robin. She never empathized. The bright colors of the suit don't match with the dark wanderings of her mind._

_But when her original suit had caught to flames, hungry red fingers tearing away at the black fabric gripped mercilessly in her father's hands, she felt she had no other choice. _

But you always have a choice. She knows that now.

_She took to the night, the stretch of green leggings pulling her feet to the ground like heavy lead weights, and the rustle of red cape against wind whispering words of discontent in her ears._

She still hears them sometimes… those words.

_She doesn't remember much in between. She knows only when it started and that it still has not ended. The terror, that is. White mist is what such horror is carried upon; expelled from an arsenal cane, a fragile tin device that holds within it her repentance. Such sorrow she refuses to yield. The fear courses through her veins, stiffens her bones, and chases her heart away. _

_She hears screaming but does not remember parting her lips, coated in saliva that leaches with the adrenaline of her shattered core, so perhaps it is not she. _

_Ellery can feel the blackening of her soul and the seeping of red blood across the streets. Her blood, the blood she owns because she shed it, created it at the end of a sharpened broadsword. And she fights against her insanity as she has done for years._

_Her savoir, even, fears her, the writhing mass of her body upon the ground. The terror they have for the other is shared equal. Her protector is clothed only in blood, batwings sprouting from the sides of his head. His lips curl, the blood of his costume drips, and the wings flap._

Later, she will not speak of such a hallucination.

_"Tim…" Ellery has never found herself drawn to fragmentary quandaries but she feels like a child still as the lunacy wracks her body with after shocks, her carcass trembling in the arms of the boy. And he reminds her so firmly of her father still. In front of that man she will always remain unfinished._

_"Yeah?" It takes the sound of his voice to remind her of their differences. She is not sure the Batman would have answered her._

_Her throat is dry, but this is not the only factor that makes it hurt to speak. "I never wanted—" Her words echo, and in their disintegration may form the beginning and ending of many a phrase._

_Ellery is glad Tim does not look at her, for his eyes always tell her all of the impossibilities she may accomplish and all of the reasons why she shouldn't._

_He hugs her seemingly fragile body closer to his chest. But that is not what she is. She has not been fragile for a long time now. Instead she is hard muscle, a body that makes the universe quake with her own existence. "—I know."_

_"But you did." This statement is applicable to more than the past._

_"I know."_

_And he always does._

The people are imbecilic.

She thinks of Damian. _Both of the Wayne blood children are tempered in fire and when they meet the flames expand, leaching the room of all oxygen in their greedy blaze._

One day they will burn this world down.

_Their relationship was built on taunting words_—"I'm the true blood child. To him you're just a bit of stolen DNA, a mistake, nothing more than a lapse in his vigilance"—_ and mistrust, a certain amount of jealousy that surpasses that of normal sibling rivalries. But, then, neither of them has ever truly been normal._

_Each child's back stiffens when they pass the other, shoulders taught, eyes against the veins that pump the blood each believes does not belong to the other. They think of such blood being shed and then they pledge they will not eradicate themselves of their own watchful eyes, piercing, and cleaving away at their opposition's insides like the pages of a novel._

And they didn't.

_As things tend to happen over long amounts of time neither of the pair did notice when their observant eyes came less from suspect and more from a silent agreement of—not quite care—but something near it. And it seemed to happen all at once; though, their training taught them that everything happens in a series of steps, unseen if you are quick enough about it. _

They usually are.

_They stand in the yard, a long stretch of grass hidden by a gully of trees, when it swells upon them. Damien watches as Ellery throws a ball for Titus and the dog brings it back, lopping in long happy strides, and drops it in her hand. _

_"Why is it that," Damian speaks slow and deliberate, "Father always looks at you in that way?" _

_The sun allows for a certain heaviness as it falls below the trees and Ellery turns to see the boy cast in the shadows of the descending night. She runs a hand through the length of her blonde hair, taking time to breath before speaking. "In what way, Damian?"_

_The boy frowns, far too deep and familiar on his young face. "Like he cares." Or more he wonders why Bruce does not look at him in that same way too._

_He does not know and she does not tell him. The Batman only shows such concern to dying people._

_The silence stretches between them, neither uncomfortable nor relaxed, but simply there. And in the near twilight, a heavy blue sliding slickly to black, the first stars make their shine. Brave, brave stars to be the very first, to risk dirtying their light._

_"Brother," Ellery says, turning towards the manor. It does not welcome her as it used to but the obligation of patrol tugs her forward._

_"Sister," he acknowledges without press and without further speech. Perhaps he feels this need for silence too, after such a weighty assent. _

The people are remiss.

But she does not say any of this aloud.


End file.
